Snow drifts down, in that steady, not-too-heavy, I-mean-business pace that indicates it will, as forecasters predict, fall all day.

It is another vacation day for me, one of only five I’ve taken over Christmas that, thanks to the timing of the holidays, appears to add up to 10. I’ve been almost forced to take them because I ended the year with so much extra vacation time: 120 hours in all. The tally will drop to 80 as the year ends. Still a damn shame. I didn’t use the time because I couldn’t figure out where I wanted to go, or what I wanted to do.

I sleep until almost 9, and wake feeling fabulously rested. I try to push off the sense of dread that battles with my consciousness almost upon the opening of my eyes. It is a vacation day, my son is gone and I have no concrete plans.

Thoughts of shopping dance through my head and then exit to the side. Chase Manhattan tells me my checking account is down to $5. Tomorrow is payday, but debit cards are instantaneous and the mortgage payments I’ve put off in favor of Christmas presents wait to consume my paycheck with hasty greed.

Besides, shopping isn’t what I need. It’s an activity that brings mini sparks of joy, but distracts me from the fact that I feel completely without focus. And have for so very long now.

The job feels meaningless. In fact, worse than meaningless. It fills me with a sense of dread that I am beginning to realize no salary or incentive package can permanently alleviate.

With Pam out of the neighborhood and onto a boyfriend, my social life is lackluster again. Our once-daily contact has faded with amazing speed to maybe a couple times a week, and then almost always no more than a phone call.

Although I have good friends in Denver now, I see them rarely and reach out to them infrequently. They have lives of their own and I often feel it is hard for them, when I call out for help, to comprehend how desperate is my need.

Most of the time for these last several months, I find it hard to hold up my end of conversations, and as though I have little to contribute that is original, amusing, beyond the routine. Wasn't I sparkling once? Fascinating even to myself?

My love life is achingly empty, as it has been for years. I try, bravely I think, to reach out to the one person who has so long remained my shining hope. He does not respond. That light, which has grown so small and flickering over the months, goes out and I am in the dark, grasping for a switch, desperate to believe my hope was grounded in something grand, and not merely a sad mistake.

In an effort to dispel the gloomy thoughts that swirl around me in my house, I wipe snow off the car and hit the lightly traveled, snowy suburban streets.

My unfashionable but sturdy Saturn moves without pause, studded snow tires biting into the snow with seeming appetite. I feel confident, taking pleasure as I always do in driving in weather that leaves others cowering in their homes.

Even the library parking lot, usually a bee’s nest of SUVs and sedans vying for close-in parking, is quiet. I dump a book, “The Dummies Guide to the Middle East,” and two movies – one 16-year-old sugary sweet and one 40-something depressing – into the return slot. Immediately, I find my second book choice from yesterday, “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to the Middle East Conflict” and grab it. I hope fervently that it, unlike the Dummies Guide, doesn’t make me feel stupid. How can anyone possibly read a book with such a title and fail to grasp what the author is saying? But I did it! Perhaps I should feel a sense of accomplishment? Then I move to the DVD stands in search of new movies. The DVD section is always popular. Even on this quiet day, four or five people stand in various spots around the two sections of selections, eyes roving the titles.

I am absurdly happy to find a vacant spot, an entire back side of DVDs no one else is purusing. Here, I can scan titles to my heart’s content, without worrying I am in someone’s way or waiting for someone else to finish. My joy is short-lived, however. A tall, blonde woman walks around the corner and stands slightly behind me, to my immediate left.

Even though I was clearly there first, she is scanning the titles in the same section, standing directly in my personal space. I feel uncomfortable and ridiculously resentful. I decide to stand my ground. Clearly, she does not know or is choosing to ignore library etiquette. Which loosely and nonverbally goes that when someone is perusing a section of anything at all, the second person should either stand far back and politely wait, perhaps even start reading a book they’ve picked up so as not to give the person any sense of urgency, or, best of all, move on to another section and come back to the other later, when the first person has gone.

Since she is not abiding by these simple rules, I squat there, peering at titles and occasionally grabbing a cover to read the back, far longer than I intended. I sense her resentment. But I stand firm, so long that she finally moves to another section. Or, more likely, simply finishes reading titles over my shoulder and moves on.

I feel petty but somehow amused. Doesn’t everyone think along these same lines at least once every day? Annoyed by the slow driver in the fast lane, who surely is not distracted or lost in thought, but driving there just to piss you off. Frustrated by the woman in front of you is writing, of all the archaic things in this world, a CHECK! Or is it just part of my misery, that I am so tied up in feeling bad I believe others are out to make me feel bad, too. Is this normal, or is this terrible?

Whatever it is, I know I am not alone, particularly at this time of year, in feeling pain. My divorced friend, new to my life in the last year, says her eyes filled with tears when she looked up during Christmas dinner, saw her happy, coupled relatives and felt overwhelmed by loneliness. Another friend’s mother cries over the phone to me on Christmas Day, beaten by fresh news of her daughter’s impending divorce. Three days before Christmas, another friend asks her husband to leave their home. The newspaper tells of a small girl dying on Christmas Day when she rides her new bike into the street in front of the family home.

My troubles are so small by comparison. The surface of my life a pretty package for which I should be grateful, but the loneliness underneath real.

In my core, I am optimistic, blindingly so. The best part of me hasn’t yet been tapped, I believe. It is waiting for me, the only one who holds the key, to open the floodgates and break it free.

I look up from this writing and see that the snow is still falling. I will find what I need to open those gates, and soon I believe. But not now. Now, at this moment, everyday life is calling. The driveway needs to be cleared, and I am headed for the shovel.

My son still believes in Santa Claus. Or at least, at 12, he's hanging on to some shred of that belief, because he must have serious doubts by now. Or maybe he is very elaborately leading me to believe in his belief.

Thus, I either did a very good or a very bad thing on Christmas Eve.

My ex and I bought the same present: Guitar Hero III, a computer game that seems sort of not-so-bad and perhaps even educational in that the player, equipped with a guitar specifically designed for the game, "plays" the notes as the music - represented by flashing lights - unfolds on the screen. It meets the Mommy Test of acceptable computer game, likely because I actually want to play myself.

By the time I discovered my ex had it, it was too late to exchange the game. So, at about midnight on Christmas Eve, having wrapped and situated all the gifts under the tree, stuffed the stocking and tossed into the trash can a cookie or two to give the appearance of a snacking Santa, I sat at my computer and wrote Robby a note.

The note came from Santa, natch, and read - partially - like this:

"Ran into your mother, who as you may know is a bit of an insomniac, this evening here. We had a lovely chat about you, but when I shared with her your wish list, it became clear I had erred and sent you a duplicate gift to your father's home."

I debated adding that since his father lives in bumfuck, it's easiest for him to exchange my gift instead of his dad's, but refrained.

Santa/I instructed Robby in the return of the gift, and that he should get himself another toy or game he wanted instead. He also encouraged Robby to keep up the good work at school, and "Help your mom around the house as much as possible; she appreciates it more than you can imagine."

I debated rephrasing this to say, "Do whatever your lovely mother says. You're 12 now for God's sake, the only man in that big house she bought almost entirely for you -- and I'm still watching." And refrained again.

Instead, I ended it with:

"Know that you are truly among my shining stars."

Signed, "Santa C."

Santa/I then added what I thought was a rather humorous P.S. It touched on a subject Robby had brought up a few weeks ago, about a news story he'd heard that Santas nationwide were being discouraged from saying 'ho-ho-ho,' for fear some women would be offended. "Isn't that ridiculous?" Robby had said.

Santa apparently agreed, as he wrote: "I enjoyed over-hearing your observations about the 'ho-ho-ho' debacle; what a bit of rubbish that was, eh?"

I taped this missive to the Guitar Hero III box and collapsed into bed.

He woke me at about 6:30. "Mom, come read this!"

Still bleary-eyed, I pored over it, feigning great surprise and amusement. "Oh yeah!" I said. "Gosh, I was so tired I barely remember it, but we did meet last night!"

Robby didn't ask any follow-up questions, such as, "What was he wearing? Is he really fat? How did he get in? What did you say about me?" or other such things that should have come naturally. And when the neighbor boy, who is 9 and definitely still a believer, came by to see Robby's gifts, he said "no" to my suggestion that he share the note with his friend.

Yet later, when the neighbor kids had come and gone, I saw him reading it again.

I am left to wonder what this means. I had been quite sure, based on the fact that he wrote separate wish lists for both his father and I, that he had abandoned the whole Santa thing. I had felt certain of it, too, because he grinned at me slyly while we shopped at Christmas Eve and said, "Are you getting things for me?" But I'd been sure mostly because he's 12, living in a modern world, where secrets about everthing from Santa to the birds-and-the-bees are early on disabused.

I was, in fact, relieved by the idea. No more watching my words, staying up til the wee hours to slide presents under the tree, remembering to put "From Santa" on some gifts and "From Mom" on others. No more deception, period.

But the balance beam we parents walk on this issue is so very thin. If we ask our children about their beliefs, we surely cause them to question it in their minds, perhaps even to question us. And almost none of us are really ready to break that magical bubble. On the other hand, we'd rather they learn it from us - the creators of the dream - than some playground friend who feels duty bound to share his newfound knowledge.

Yet he lives in a different world than many children, attending a school of only 25 K-8 students. How many of those 25 still believe? And how many of the rest know not to say anything? Could it be all 25, in one way or another, keep Santa alive? He is also an only child, without siblings to leak information to his ears.

So I say nothing. And wonder.

My son is smart and sensitive, particularly, I think, when it comes to his father and me. He relays to us both almost nothing but necessary information about the other and about his lifestyle in each home, rarely dropping a hint as to which home - if either - he prefers. After at one point telling me he hated his stepmother, he later said everything between them was fine. I do not know the truth of this matter, and do not ask because I believe he will varnish his answer.

So it seems plausible to me he's keeping up the charade not for himself, but for us. Because he believes we enjoy it and that it might hurt us to realize he is growing up, leaving such things behind. Perhaps he read the note so fervently because he realized it was from me, and found it amusing, maybe delighted that I had called him a "shining star."

Years from now, I'll have the answers to these questions. Someday, it will be safe to ask him if he thought Santa really wrote to him.

But for now, I stay quiet. And while part of me bemoans the drudgery of keeping up the ruse, another part of me hopes my son still believes in Santa. That, in a world over-run with bad news and broken hearts, he will always believe; if not precisely in Santa, in this wonderful intangible the jolly old fellow represents. That he believes forever in magic.

About half an hour ago, in the tall grass of the park near our home, I found George's tail.

It was near the ditch George liked to explore. Overgrown with bushes and low trees, stretching the length of our big park, it is a regular cat heaven. When we'd walk there, he'd disappear into this area, jumping out at us from time to time as if to say, "Surprise!". Once, we found him high up in a tree, looking down at us with great amusement in his green eyes.

At first, I dismissed this small tuft of fur as some cat's tail. Not mine. The spaces between the orange tabby stripes on this five-inch section - all that was left of this little animal - were too wide. I picked it up, studied it and dropped it. At the opposite end of the park, I turned around and ran back to it.

I brought it home and pulled out the photo album, searching for the picture of George with his tail, curled like a question mark over his head, walking toward me. Undeniably smiling.

Shocked, I noted the spaces between the stripes of his tail. The white tip, which I had never before noticed. Everything, down to the depth of color, was the same as the piece of fur in my hand.

I thought I had dealt with the loss of George, but this sight, an undeniable statement of his death, brought it all back. The most recent picture I have, of George stretched out on the carpet staring with some measure of boredom at a small, very much alive garter snake he'd brought into the house, is thumbtacked above my desk. I think I kept it there out of some small hope that the animal communicator was right and someday, he'd return. The picture was there to remind me that he could be out there, locked in someone's house somewhere, one open door away from home.

I have sat here, crying, morbidly stroking this stiff piece of tail, its texture just the same as George's soft coat. It's like I am petting him for the last time.

I'm meeting a friend out for a birthday drink in only about half an hour. It's time to wash my face, reapply my makeup, and throw away all that remains of George. Throw it deep into the trash can where Robby never will see it.

And think ahead to the kitten I plan to put under the Christmas tree for my son.

That little feline will be loved well and kept completely inside. Likely, all that love will create a cat with huge personality.

But I know, as I knew when I owned him, that George is that rare pet that comes along once in a lifetime - the best of its species, the one against which all other cats or dogs must almost unfairly be measured. These are the animals you feel lucky to own. As though this creature chose you, knowing you deserved and needed such a dazzling spark of life.

Perhaps, that day we first saw him in the Buena Vista Animal Shelter, when he so immediately captivated Robby that my son refused to even look at the younger kittens, that's what he did. He chose us.

Back from my drink, under dark skies, I take Ally for a walk to the park. George's tail is in my hand. I'm bound for the trash can there. I walked around on the path, away from the trash can that borders the softball diamond, north toward Kohl's, away from it again. I brush the fur across my cheek. I do not want to let it go. What harm would it be to carry it in my pocket? Something soft and reassuring, a reminder of something so fun and alive.

How much this desire is like other things in my life, surely in everyone's lives. I struggle with letting go of relationships that are dead. I cling to memories, to anything really, any small sign of hope that perhaps things can return to the way they were. I don't let go, no matter how damning the evidence that something is dead. Accepting the loss is giving up, losing control. How difficult that is for us all.

I almost walk by the trash can. It is with true effort that I stop the movement of my feet. I pull off my glove, stroke the fur with my hand, hold it over the can, hesitate and let it go.

POSTSCRIPT

As a final tribute, I'm posting here part of an old entry about George.

Jan. 19, 2006

My dog, cat and I went for a walk in the falling snow tonight.

Yes, that's right -- my cat goes, too.

George walks with Ally and I in rain and sun, dark and bitterly cold.

I used to shorten my walks when George first began accompanying Ally and me, conscious of his very short legs and a lung capacity I foolishly thought was compromised by size. Then, after several attempts to carry him in which he kicked and struggled to be free, I realized he likes our evening strolls. He follows Ally and me up and down the streets of our hilly neighborhood on walks that sometimes last 90 minutes.

Passers-by sometimes pull over, peering out of their car window to ask, "Is that your cat?" Yes indeed, I say, that's my cat. "He thinks he's a dog," I say this part in a loud whisper, so they understand how delicate is his image, and how deeply entrenched this conviction is in his wee kitty head. They laugh uproariously and pull away, shaking their heads.

Tonight's weather seemed to suit him especially well. I think it suited all three of us well.

We walked on sidewalks deep with snow, snow so fresh that almost no one had yet shoveled it. George alternated between lagging behind, sometimes crying piteously for us to wait, and sprinting past us, his tail fat as a bottle brush with excitement. He ran repeatedly off the sidewalk into the deepest snow -- more than knee deep on a cat. He chirped when I bent to pet him, so happy he didn't just bump his head against my hand but stood on his hind legs and arched his orange neck grandly to do so.

Ally loped ahead of us for the most part, sometimes giving short chase to nervous rabbits, sometimes dragging her snout through the fresh snow and snorting as it went up her nose. She dropped and rolled in it on her back, turning for a moment from black to white, two coal black eyes looking out from her snow-packed face.

She's a fine pet, too, with a serious and gentle soul. A dog trainer who met her told me she would kill to protect my son Robby and me. But I realize, with some measure of guilt, that she hasn't crawled under my heart like her quirky little brother.

He's a strange little fellow, with an admirable and comedic spirit. I already know he's the best cat I'll ever have.

Christmas brings with it a whole world of home ownership about which I had forgotten: Decking the halls.

As luck would have it, Peacock Drive lives up to its name. As of Dec. 2 - more specifically as of about 20 minutes ago during my most recent night time stroll - our street is most flamboyantly lit of all those in our sizeable neighborhood.

Some streets are almost entirely dark. On ours, you could read directions from a prescription bottle standing in the light from a dozen different, dazzling houses. Peer pressure definitely is at work here.

It began last weekend. I suspect it will continue to build through at least mid-month.

On an unseasonably warm late November Saturday, five neighbors on the northern end of the street - all either next to or directly across from one another - spent portions of their afternoons decorating their homes. I saw them scrambling across rooftops, balancing on ladders, tucking extension cords behind bushes and into sidewalk cracks, dragging unrecognizable inflatables into position on front yards.

That night, they lit up like five little Christmas trees, all in a row.

I walked by them later, alternately impressed and aghast at what I saw. A white elephant, standing about three feet tall and fairly dancing with white lights, balanced a gift wrapped in cheery red paper on his trunk, slowly lifting and lowering the trunk as though to say, "From me!" A small train appeared to roll through that same yard. Four three-foot tall cylindered trees, no more than circles of white lights, formed a mini-forest there. An inflatable Mickey Mouse, smartly attired in green and red, beamed at passers-by. White icicle lights bedecked both upper and lower level. Blue net lights cozied up to each bush. Large green and red candy canes lined the sidewalk. That was one house.

The others were equally as spectacular. An inflatable Grinch here, a family of caroling snowmen there, sets of those creepy white wire reindeer with eerily slow-moving necks grazing and staring from this yard and that yard, lines of lights that created a flashing diamond on the roof of one house, multi-colored lights that wrapped completely around the second story of another house, 16-foot trees lit from stem to stern, two sets of Santa and his reindeer flying into the dark of night from the roofs of neighboring houses. Logistically, this setup didn't work. If put into motion, the two sleighs definitely would have collided mid-air, spewing toys and reindeer parts all over Peacock Drive. Aesthetically, however, it was a pleasant sight.

These homes were not just decorated. They were decked out.

Down on our end of the street, the homes stayed dark. But pressure was building. Something I heard tell of called Keeping Up with the Joneses was at work.

For myself, I felt a pit deep in my stomach that slowly crept around and lodged itself near where - were I male - a wallet would rest. This was a financial investment I hadn't considered, and six years of house-free living had left me completely unprepared. But though I had not the advantage of fancy tools, dual incomes and Home Depot Visa cards, as the new and lone single female on the block, my house had to give a respectable showing.

Saturday, Robby and I melded with the throngs at Wal-Mart and emerged unscathed, having swiftly snapped up the last three boxes of mulit-colored icicle lights. I had admired them on several houses on nearby Mercury Circle. They were flashy, yet cool and a bit cutting edge. Best of all, no one on Peacock Drive had yet selected them.

Three hours later, fingers numb, my son having long since deserted me for warm, indoor play at the neighbors' house, I plugged in the lights that spanned the eaves along the house's lower level, stood back and grinned at the sight. My smile did a fast flip.

A 9-row section of lights, smack dab above the garage, stared at me blankly. An obvious gap in an otherwise perfect set of teeth.

I got out the ladder, jiggled, then pushed in each individual bulb in the section, hoping for the flash of light that never came.

Cold and discouraged, I retreated to the house and a cold beer.

An hour later, refueled and ready to do battle, I came back out. The spare bulbs were in hand. I was ready to pull out and test each bulb in the striking section.

Except that now, there were two. Two 9-row sections of broken teeth.

In a fury, I yanked them down. What had taken three hours to uncurl and put into place took five minutes to remove.

Alone this time, I returned to Wal-Mart.

The clerk tisked. "Oh," she said, looking at the boxes. "We've had lots of trouble with those."

I exchanged them for six $2 boxes of cool blue mini lights. No uncurling required.

My house looks, well, nice. But rather boring when compared with the beauty queens down the street. Thank God my nearest neighbor opted for the sophisticated look of plain white lights. That way, I don't feel quite so mousey.

Suzanne, the matriarch in that house, said they long since gave up on putting on a show.

She nodded toward their home as she explained this. I noticed a quartet of simple green-and-red wreaths attached to each post on the front of their house. A string of garland ran along the eave from the garage to the end of the front porch. A small herd of wooden reindeer stood near the front door.

"I'm really big into making sure it looks nice during the day, too - not just at night."

I nodded, and felt the pit return to my stomach as I looked at my house. Bland and normal in this late afternoon hour except for the strand of unlit lights that were visible only if you knew to look for them. This was an entire new aspect of which I hadn't even thought.

But I will let this one go for my first winter, and resign myself to the fact that it will take years of collecting to reach the lavish levels of many of my neighbors. The true test of homeowner winter preparedness is still to come. Blizzard season is right around the corner, and I am prepared to meet it.

As of Tuesday, for the first time in six years, I own a snow shovel. Steel core shaft, sure-grip resin sleeve, graphite construction, long-lasting galvanized wear strip. In a very serious shade of gray.

Last week, I toyed with the idea of discontinuing, or significantly lessening, my medications. It's an idea I've been mulling over on and off for months actually. I've felt off, sad, purposeless and unmotivated to really do anything to change it. When someone attempted to joke with me - rare in my line of work - I felt hard-pressed to come up with a response. Hadn't I once been quick witted? Was I, perhaps, just getting old?

The vivacious me I know and love felt nowhere in sight, and I missed her.

Today, after four full days of socializing with friends and celebrating this thing called life, I saw her again in the mirror. Weary and worn, but definitely there.

I realized that it is not the pills, or lack thereof, that subdues the real me. It is working home alone, and even when working outside the house, seeing through projects for which I have little passion. I have known this for some time, but how I will change it is unclear. My boss just gave me a raise, a generous raise, well over the cost of living. The job is not difficult, or unpleasant. These things make the idea of leaving seem a fool's errand.

But my despondency came, even more so I think, from not reaching out to and seeing friends on a regular basis.

My son spent Thanksgiving with his father. I dreaded the long weekend without him. Beyond Thanksgiving Day, spent with my friend April in Colorado Springs, nothing was planned. What would I do with all that time? I put out a few tentative phone calls and e-mails to friends, but somehow, expected nothing. I'd finish some half-completed house projects, take Ally for long walks, do some Christmas shopping, hopefully meet a friend for lunch.

Then, the phone rang. And never stopped.

My friend Lane, wanting to meet Saturday for window shopping and lunch in Denver's swanky Cherry Creek North. Diane, saying she'd love to go dancing Saturday night. Pam, wanting to head out for appetizers and drinks Friday eve. And these things preceded by a Thanksgiving Day dinner and drinks out in downtown Colorado Springs with April and Pam. A pub crawl Wednesday eve with the members of one of the singles socials group with which I've pushed myself to re-engage.

Pam, who is between homes, is staying with me on and off until the first of the year. An arrangement I'd first thought would be tension filled has been anything but.

Friday eve, she and her boyfriend waited downstairs while I primped to go out with them. I realized I felt happy. Anticipatory, but also, happy right there in my house, at that moment. It was, I realized, because of the sound of people coming from below me. Friends, laughing and conversing comfortably in my living room.

The feeling overtook me again Thursday morning when, Pam and I, both a bit punchy from the previous evening's pub crawl,
hung companionably in the kitchen together. I stood at the counter, unwrapping cream cheese, pouring milk and mixing the ingredients for the caramel apple cheesecake that would top our later dinner in April's home. Pam read the paper. We both drank coffee. Neither of us wore makeup. We chatted and joked.

And I felt happy.

It returned Saturday, as Lane and I wandered the streets and expensive shops of Denver, discussing subjects sometimes painful, sometimes light. No matter the subject, I was content deep in my core because my company was the finest. Time with Lane, among my oldest and favorite of friends, is precious. Always soothing and good for the soul.

I drove home, thinking back on the afternoon and ahead to the evening. Thinking, this is a good life.

Diane and I danced until bar time last night. We danced more with one another than with anyone else. Once we began, we scarcely stopped. We danced until our feet ached. And danced some more.

And at some point, fairly early in the evening, what hadn't happened for me in perhaps a year or more did. The music filled me up and overtook me. I danced without thought, scarcely conscious of anyone else, of anything else, but the music. I danced, as the saying goes, like no one was looking. Indeed, I cared not a thing for who stood along the sidelines, or whether or not I had a partner.

It has been months since I bought a new CD, typically listening to the background noise of a Top 40 radio station rather than seeking out something interesting and unusual. I'd questioned, at times, whether my love of music had faded and it simply wasn't as important to me as it had once been.

But here it was. As powerful as ever.

And here, too, was I. Here I had been all weekend.

Overwhelmed with music. Surrounded all weekend by those I love. My house overflowing with laughter, my heart warm with happiness.

I missed my son, yes. But I'd missed myself, too. Getting her back, finding me and discovering I've been quelled but not extinguished, was invaluable. Now, the question is, how do I keep her?

In an effort to find another venue for Robby to meet kids who will be attending high school with him, I
tried the neighbors' church this last weekend. They said it was called Cherry Hills "community" church, which sounded nice and friendly, kind of country homey, to me.

And I love my neighbors. Their children are models of good behavior, and Robby's almost-constant weekend companions. They find me amusing -- whether laughing with me or at me, I can't be sure, but still, I'm flattered. Their parents have helped me with many a household chore since I moved into their midst, loaned me rakes and weed whackers, fixed plumbing problems on a moment's notice, watched my son and happily accepted my meager offerings of gratitude: beer and gin. So I figured it must be OK.

So Sunday a.m., Robby and I set off on yet another in a series of religious experiments -- which, by the way, he hates with a polite, mostly unspoken passion. We pulled in with minutes to spare, but enough, I thought, to make the service. Then I saw Douglas County Sheriff's cruisers, parked near the entry, lights flashing. At first, I thought some horrible accident had occurred right at the church entrance. Then I realized they were directing traffic.

"Lot FULL," a sign before us read.

The deputy waved us into another lot, some distance from the church entrance - which appeared to be less a church than an institution, a massive brick expanse larger than most urban office buildings.

We found a spot and began our journey to the doors. It was a walk of at least three football fields.

But my neighbor and her son was waiting outside the entrance, and she waved away my apologies. We led Robby and her son to a mysterious room in which they would receive their own form of religious instruction.

I walked in like a lamb to slaughter, with a completely open mind and optimistic hope that I had finally found something -- less loosey-goosey than Unitarianism but not quite so heavy as Catholicism feels to me -- that would click with me.

I noticed the area most would call the nave was large. Too large for the word, I thought. But it had a breezy, open feel I liked.

Besides, music was playing, a woman was singing and it was awesome. The church had an amazing sound system and a full
band. Even screens up above that broadcast close-ups of the singer. A good idea since I later realized there were 3,500 people in the room, more of an auditorium with a second layer in the form of a full balcony than a chapel.

So, I was still impressed.

Then the preaching began. And very soon into it, the pastor - whose mike was set so loud that his voice boomed in my chest - said he believes that people who don't tithe will "go to hell!" And within five minutes of that, he said the words "evangelism" and "Billy Graham."

I realized I was in deep doo-doo and had naively walked into the very kind of church I rail agains. These types of churches were among the reasons I wanted out of Colorado Springs. The-Bible-is-rule, we're-right-and-you're-wrong kind of churches.

I suddenly felt like a traitor in their midst. And completely out of place. And I also thought, how amused my friends would be if they could see me now. Darn near front and center at an evangelical mega-church.

As his words sank in, many of them feeling almost like a physical slap to my face, I also felt a sinking sensation in my heart. I truly want to find a religious sanctuary, a place that resonates with me such that I can share it with my son in deepest sincerity, and a place brimming with children for Robby to befriend for years to come. But even for Robby, and even though I'm yoga-flexible, this was farther than I could bend.

I talked briefly with my neighbor later that day. She inquired about the service and when I expressed some doubts, her response showed me she was a true believer. She stressed that tithing was in the Bible, and that the Bible was written by God. Her voice held such a tone of insistence that I felt myself shrinking, as I always did from this type of discussion. She said she felt it was a bad first sermon for me to hear, but that not all sermons can be inspiring. This pastor, she said, with sermons such as this, teaches us how to find our own salvation.

"But isn't that," I wanted to say, "a bit selfish?"

I envisioned these Biblical orders as pennies dropping into a penny jar. Tithing amounted to a penny here and a penny there -- more money donated, more pennies in the jar. And eventually, when they had done enough of these Bible-ordered deeds, the full penny jar became Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Offer it up to the God you believe in, and the gates of heaven swing open. You have been saved!!

"And just how," I also wanted to ask, "do you know the Bible was written by God? How can you be so sure of any of these things? How can your faith be so unflinchingly strong when all I have are more and more questions?"

But I offered no further quarrel.

Religion and politics. What do they say? Don't talk about 'em. Just love your neighbor. Period.

Later that evening, I took a long walk with my friend Diane, who is of the middle-of-the-road, tolerant, sometimes admittedly uncertain Christian variety I like. She gasped when I told her where I'd been. "Oh God, Jane! If you'd told me where you were going, I could have warned you. That's one of THOSE churches! I can't believe you went there!" She proceeded to laugh uproariously.

This gave rise to a rousing theological discussion, which we both thoroughly enjoyed, and which ended, naturally, over beers and a cheese-drenched plate of nachos at Old Chicago.

Needless to say, Robby and I won't be going back. I will find a gentle way to tell my neighbors. Perhaps, I've thought, by saying that "it just didn't hit home for us," and hope that it won't hurt our friendship. Because they are loving people, I know we'll be just fine.

And as for me and Robby? The search may continue, or it may not. I may just have to simply accept that I will never have a sense of religious certainty, and go back to doing what feels right to me: Living the best life I can, helping to brighten the way for others through acts both big and small. Trying, always trying -- with remarkable - hopefully even amusing - imperfection.

An unrecognizable phone number flashed on my cell screen Sunday night. I let it go to voicemail, then, immediately checked the message. (This is how we all do it, right? Pretend not to care, then rush to hear who's trying to reach us!)

The voice was familiar from the first syllable. Male, southern, polite, older.

He introduced himself as a blast from the past. His name was Ron. He was the father of a young man whose trial I'd covered in Summit County a decade ago. Andrew, who could not have been much older than 20 then, had hit a man in the head with a rock during what allegedly was a drug deal gone bad. Andrew reportedly was shocked to read two days later in the paper that the man had died; he fled home, to his father's house in North Carolina, where police found him.

"Andrew's been incarcerated for 12 and a-half years," his father said. "He was locked up that day they came to the house and he's never been out since."

Ron and I had become friends during the course of the trial, which lasted 17 months. I know this because Robby was not yet born the day the victim, John, died in a vacant lot on a cold March night in 1995. My son was a year and two weeks old when the gavel sealed the jury's decision and Andrew's future in late September 1996.

There was never any doubt that Andrew was responsible for John's death. The debate was over intent. Andrew maintained he had acted in self defense, and knew he had hurt the man but did had no idea he'd struck him with enough force to kill.

I believed this was true. I had sympathy for Andrew, as well as for John's family, few of whom attended any of the court proceedings. But this was the way for me with all three murder trials I covered during those years. Horrid as the crimes were and much as I believed a sentence was in order, I always believed the accused's account. As a juror in all three cases, I would have found for second-degree murder. The juries always blind-sided me, each time coming back with a first-degree murder verdict and life sentences.

Some might say I am just a wee bit of a bleeding heart. It is, I believe, what made me a good reporter. I could always see both sides.

But anyone could have seen his father's heartbreak. He was a kind, gentle man, nearly broken by the chain of events. We sat in the same courtroom for hours at a time, with breaks between court appearances that sometimes lasted months.

Ocassionally, near the end, he took me to dinner. He talked little of his son. I think he was unable.

Closer to his son's age than Ron's, I never had a romantic thought toward Ron. He was married, though I only once saw his wife in the courtroom with him - on the day of sentencing. He is also a good 20 years older than me. I suspected he might have felt some small something for me, but I never encouraged it or acknowledged that I even had an inkling of such a thing.

We had exchanged Christmas cards for a couple of years after the trial ended, then those had trailed off, too.

Now, he was calling to say hello. He was going home Monday after spending a few days in Colorado, visiting Andrew in a state facility. Ron had gotten my number from Brad, in an e-mail Brad had sent him some time ago.

Some time ago indeed. Brad has been dead for more than 13 months now.

We talked briefly about Brad's accident. Brad had correponded for a time with Andrew; I knew he had hoped to write about those exchanges someday. Regardless, Ron said Andrew and he had "kind of hit it off." His other two sons were doing well, he said.

"I know it sounds cold, but life does go on," he said. "I have two other sons to care for. You do your best by them, and you do your best for the one that went astray."

Ron he came to Colorado from his home in North Carolina three or four times a year, he said. "May I take you to dinner next time I'm here?"

I marveled at the polite, southern style with which he posed that question.

I said certainly and look forward to that time.

After we said goodbye, my mind filled with memories of the trial. The most significant for me happened the day the jury reached its decision.

I was but a month from leaving Zach, yet in my memory, I was already single. For some reason, I had no care for Robby that day and had brought him with me to the Summit County Justice Center. My reporter friend Jane held him while I sat in the courtroom, listening to the verdict.

As the judge read the unanimous decision, Andrew's shoulders sagged and his head fell to the defense attorney's table. I saw his back shaking with soundless sobs.

Just outside the doors, Robby began to cry, a distinct sound audible to all in the courtroom. It faded abruptly as Jane walked down the hallway with him, away from the courtroom.

It was an absurb thought, I knew, but I wondered if he could feel the boiling emotions from behind the doors.

The horrible irony of that moment stays with me today. One son lost forever, another lost to a lifetime of imprisonment and hopeless regret, and another whose life was just beginning.

As parents, we resolve to protect and even save our children from life's worst experiences. Yet at some point, we all have to open the door, hope we've taught them how to fly straight and true, and let them go.

That time approaches for Robby and me, I know. He's flapping his almost teen-aged wings, moving toward the door. But I've got a few more years. Enough time still, I hope, to teach him well.

After a month of planning, construction and worry, and with help from a host of volunteers, I successfully hosted a kids Halloween party for the single parent group to which I belong. Our basement, including Robby's room, became a mini haunted house, the upstairs a gathering place in which children ingested sugar in mass quantities and parents turned a temporarily blind eye to it.

When the real lights went down and the black and strobe lights came on, when the characters did their frightful things and the motion-activated floating skull began screeching at each youthful visitor who descended the stairs, the haunted house was a success. A little frightening - but just a little, mind you - even to Robby, who had been through it many times in the light of day. Two children even refused to come down the stairs, and were later only coaxed there when the lights came up -- a sure sign of success!

From the day the sun rose Saturday, I was stressed, moving nonstop, cleaning in preparation for a party - always a questionable activity - baking the brownies that would be rolled into objects one could easily mistake for dog poop, checking lights, putting on my costume and, as pre-party volunteers began flowing into the house, directing, directing, directing.

Every "What needs to be done?" was met with a very specific response. There was no time to waste. We faced a deadline. This is always when I am at my most focused and effective.

"It's going to be fabulous," David, another group member said. "You can relax."

But I couldn't. Matt needed an extension cord. Diana needed wax paper for the caramel apples. Sara needed tape. These were items only a homeowner could find.

So, headless-chicken style, I kept moving.

From the haunted house to the pinata, the party went off without a hitch, and with ample screams both of delight and fear.

After the basement closed for haunting, I stood in the driveway with David and another single dad.

"It was awesome!" David said. "You should be proud. And now you can relax."

"Sort of," I said, "I have a house full of people."

"They're fine," he said.

I knew that what he said was true, but as we spoke, I saw three sucked-dry silver Capri Sun packages littering the lawn. Inside, orange candies once attached to brightly decorated cupcakes dotted the carpet, the kitchen table was smeared with small hand prints, the counter gooey with caramel. Children shrieked and ran inside the house, and I, the mother of one, well-behaved 12-year-old boy, felt overwhelmed by the swell of activity.

He was right. The adults and children were fine, but I was not. Now, I wanted to clean. I wanted my house back. I wanted the month of preparation truly complete.

I felt somehow wicked, ushering the last guest out with such relief.

"Can I help you clean up?" she asked. I could see she felt guilty leaving me what the party's remnants.

"No, thank you. Really I'm just fine," I said, not adding that the best way she could help me was to leave.

I tackled the house and quickly, night time came. For a change, I slept soundly.

After breakfast today, Robby ran, as usual, next door to play.

I sat inside, thinking of all I still needed to do.

There was, for instance, the dog to be walked. I leashed Ally and walked the half block to the park. I looked up at the sky and saw, for the first time, what a truly beautiful Indian summer day it was.

I forced my step to slow, then stop, then lowered myself to the ground. I sat in the grass. And let myself be.

The breeze stirred my hair. The sun warmed my skin. Traffic on nearby Quebec hummed steadily. Occasionally, during those lovely 10 minutes or so, Ally ran to me, her mouth open in what was clearly a laugh, dropping the ball at my feet in a request for a throw. But at 11, and tires easily. Her demands were few; mostly, she lay in the shade, gnawing happily on the tennis ball.

I stared at the grass and noticed a small bee hovering above a patch of it a few feet away from me.

My thoughts meandered.

I relaxed.

I realized, too, how rare a moment it was. How infrequently I allowed myself these moments.

Months ago, I joked with my yoga instructor - then and still now my realtor - that I loved the workout aspect of yoga but hated "the part at the end where you just lay there." I felt it was a waste of time, I said, when I had so many things to do.

He smiled, that semi-amused, patient and somehow simultaneously wise smile that only few people can manage. "Consider," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Just consider for a moment, will you?" He paused. "That you never allow yourself to relax."

I laughed and gave him some lightly flippant response. I could never disrespect Mike, but the idea struck me as silly. Until later, when I thought about it again.

When I have free time, I typically think not about how I can enjoy it, but what I must do. When the newspaper sections pile up, unread, I no longer look forward to reading them as pleasure, but as an obligation. I paid for them. I must read them. E-mails become not a fun way to communicate, but obligations; I cannot neglect my friends by failing to respond in a timely manner. I consciously think about scheduling my social life. I list it among my "goals for the day," a piece of paper I print out and tape on the wall in front of my computer each morning. It is here now as I type: Goals: October 24: Schedule at least one social event this week." When Robby and I watch a movie, I cannot sit still but jump up repeatedly; there's dog hair on the floor after all, I have to get it while I see it; popcorn must be made, drinks poured and while I'm up doing those things, there are a half dozen others I can do, too.

Perhaps it's the fallout of life as a single parent and homeowner. Always something to do and clean, always somewhere to be.

Perhaps it's fear of what I will find if I stop. Maybe I'm running. From loneliness, human-to-human commitment and time.

But I suspect that while some of us are more dubiously practiced at it then others, this is something of which we all are guilty.

We forget to drop our hands, relieve ourselves of what are so often our self-imposed burdens, let the tension melt from our so frequently tired bodies. To just stop. And simply be.

Why Charles Went To West Virginia Seeking Virgins

I do not know if a man named Charles ventured west in search of virgins, although I suppose in the history of time some horny lad named Charles, frustrated by the lack of pure women in his own burg, traveled west in hopes of finding chaste young women.

(And likely was disappointed. Digression. Sorry.)

All I know is that this particular Charles helped my son pass his capitals-and-states test.

Charleston, West Virginia. See?

My son came to me two weeks ago with tears in his eyes. Now, I know I mention his teary eyes quite often here in the land of blog, but that's because the occurrence is so rare. He's a good student who takes it all seriously, sometimes too much so, I think. It was a Sunday and he was taking his second test on the states and their capitals the next day.

"I only know a quarter of them," he told me, just minutes before we left on his return trip to the mountains.

I suggested printing out maps of the United States that showed states but no cities. If you can see it, I said, maybe then you can remember it. Quickly, I found some online and printed out about 10 copies, leaving him plenty for practice. He stuffed them in his homework binder and we loaded up for the ride. I saw by the expression on his face it had done little to soothe him, or bolster his confidence.

I remembered my mom grilling me on the states and capitals. Repetition was key, or at least part of it.

"How about I quiz you on them?" I offered.

He nodded and handed me a sheet on which each state and its capital was printed. I laid it on my right thigh so I could glance down at it while I drove.

"Alaska," I said.

He was silent, then finally sighed and said, "I don't know."

My mind worked. I think I even heard a rusty squeak as the gears began to turn.

"OK, Alaska has like three months of solid sun or something, right? I don't know when they are but let's say, since summer is sunny, that it's June - the month that school gets out and summer begins."

"Juneau," he interrupted me.

"Yes!"

And so we started down the line.

Some were easy. For Arizona, I asked him to think about the phoenix bird in Harry Potter, and the phrase that a phoenix rises from the ashes. Arizona is so hot it creates ashes, and from there, the phoenix comes.

Some were ridiculous.

"When Columbus saw the Indians in the new world, he probably said, 'Oh! Hi! Oh!'," I said, making an expression of surprise.

"God, that is so stupid!" Robby said, laughing.

"It is," I agreed. "But will you remember it?"

He nodded, trying in vain to hold back the laughter.

After each state, I went back to the beginning and quizzed him from Alaska on down. He soon began to roll his eyes with impatience at it, but his answers were rapid fire, without hesitation.

Halfway through, I suggested we stop. "Your head needs a break from this," I said. "Then your dad can take you through the rest."

"No," he said, grinning. "Let's keep going."

To my happy surprise, I realized he was having fun. It wasn't homework. Now, it was a game.

I found myself enjoying the challenge of making them as outrageous and memorable as possible. There was South Dakota. How could he remember Pierre? He didn't know a lick of French, and it related to nothing kidlike.

"Well, South Dakota is one of those big states without a lot of people in it. In fact, it's so big and empty you could pee in the air and no one would notice!"

"Mom! That's sick!" Robby said, grinning ear-to-ear.

"What's the capital of South Dakota?"

He tried unsuccessfully to fight a smile. "Pierre."

By the time we reached his dad - nearly an hour and a half of quizzing later - Robby's confidence had returned. He jumped out of the car and threw his PS2 and homework binder into his dad's truck. I started to step back into my car, but he came rushing back, his smile as wide as his arms, and locked me in a hug.

I kissed his head, and whispered, "Don't tell your dad about West Virginia."

He nodded and grinned conspiratorially.

Three days later, I found a message on my cell phone. "Mom, I got 100 out of 100 on my test! I thought you'd want to know that and ... well, more when I see you."

For reasons far removed from Robby's of just days ago, now it was my turn to get teary eyed.

George has not returned, and I have lost hope. The animal communicator will say my lack of faith is precisely why he has not, and now will not, come home. That because I am no longer urging him to return, he will stay where he is.

This would be funny to me if it were not about George. And of course, she has not yet said this. Most likely, I am anticipating a guilt trip because I already feel guilty.

I suggested to my son we take down the "Lost cat" signs in our neighborhood and he shook his head. When I looked at him, I saw tears in his eyes. So I waited until he returned to his father's, then walked around the neighborhood and tore them from the stop signs and mailbox units to which they'd been secured for nearly three weeks.

We will wait six months, he says, to get a new cat, because "George won't like it if he comes home and finds another cat."

Me, I'm thinking Christmas. I'm thinking a carefully wrapped, breathable container under the tree, packed with a wriggling orange, tiger-striped kitten.

I'm committed to writing more often again here, and about lighter subjects for God's sake! Look for exciting titles, such as Why Charles Went West in Search of Virgins and Me & Carol: My Eternal Brush with Celebrity. You'll understand. Meanwhile, kinda puts ya on the edge of your seat, don't it?

But the hour is late, mostly because I spent the last one searching online for news of Sept. 20, 2007 - the day my friend Lu's daughter was born. I'm going to meet little Autumn tomorrow. I picked up today an adorable Osh Kosh B'Gosh hoodie and pink matching pants. I felt a wave of sorrow while perusing the racks in Osh Kosh B'Gosh, remembering my own days of shopping there for a wee Robby whose long since outgrown snap-crotch overalls and shirts adorned with fuzzy-textured, bright red trucks and spotted giraffes.

Cute as it was, it seemed not quite enough.

So, I Googled and printed news of the day she was born. I tracked down entertainment and environmental news, including a long story on Wal-Mart's efforts to "go green," perfect for this dedicated environmentalist, mountain-dwelling friend of mine. I printed out the Summit Daily News movie listings for Sept. 20 and a copy of an editorial from the same paper.

I am quite proud of myself, and can only imagine that you all are in awe as well, high-fiving me in your minds. (Thank you very much.) My gifts usually lack in creativity. They may be nice, but are not typically very remarkable. I read about this idea in a magazine, which makes me prouder still: Reading about a cool suggestion is one thing, actually remembering to do it quite another.

At any rate, all this research, after well over a year away from daily newspaper life, has quite exhausted me. And tomorrow, I have a baby to hold - another pastime from which I have too long been absent.

George is missing.

It's not uncommon that he is gone one night. But we have passed a second night, and now are on to the third.

My sleep was fitful last night, dreams of lost George intermingled with images of Robby, the two of them lost together.

I turn again and again yesterday and today from the kitchen to the window that overlooks the backyard, expecting to see him there, peering into the window back at me, his little face appearing to light up as it does when he knows I've seen him and am coming to open the door. But he is not there. I see only a scattering of yellowish orange leaves on the green patio. I try not to think about the symbolism of the dead leaves and our missing George, but it is a comparison so obvious as to nearly be comical.

My boss says her daughter knows some people who are animal communicators. "Tell me his name and send me his picture," she advises. "I'll forward it to them and we'll see what they can tell us. Maybe they can see if he's locked in somewhere, or if he's lost. They're pretty good at this, really."

I believe. At this moment, the idea is not the least bit humorous.

"Meanwhile, I want you to picture George and talk to him in your head," she says. "I know this sounds crazy, but animals pick up more than we know, especially cats. Tell him you want him to come home."

I hang up the phone and do as she said. "Come home, George," I think. "We are not a family without you."

How awful it is; I would rather something have happened to my dog than to our cat. I hope that she cannot sense this.

"Where is your brother?" I ask her. "I'm worried about him."

She looks up at me with her solemn eyes and wags her tail tentatively. I stroke her head gently.

A young, sympathetic-appearing woman at the Denver Dumb Friends League leads me through room after room of cats. A long-haired orange tabby looks up and meows at me. Another orange tabby sleeps. I look at him more closely; his nose is pink, without George's black freckles. Besides, George would have stood up at the sound of my voice.

I ask the hardest question last. "Do you have any dead cats?"

"Yes," she says. "But none like him. The best thing for you to do is to call Waste Management."

I nod curtly, as though we are talking business, and feel no shame as my emotions rise to betray me. Red-rimmed eyes can be nothing new to her.

Tomorrow night, I pick Robby up for another weekend here in our home. I will have to tell him, and watch his face twist as his small heart breaks.

Where is our crazy little Georgie-cat? I cling to hope, even as it grows slippery.

My cat George brings me gifts on a regular basis. Last week, he outdid himself.

George is 6, and a seasoned hunter, but always he is perfecting his skills, challenging himself to bigger and more elusive prey. Over the years, he has graduated from mice and birds to fully grown rabbits and, during the last few months, snakes.

The snakes hang out in the rocks decoratively placed around The Tree (for its size and beauty, it is now considered nearly a family member, well-deserving of capital letters) and in the drainage rocks at the edge of our neighbor's lawn. They are garter snakes. Small, harmless, helper snakes with a lust for insects and no desire for human - or feline - interaction.

George is whittling away at their population, certainly wreaking serpentine grief among the clan.

He brought the first snake in about six weeks ago. Robby reported seeing a live one curled on the carpet. He picked it up, took it outside and released it.

The next was not so lucky. It, too, was curled onto the carpet, but it would never uncoil again. I dumped this stiff bit of reptile into a Wal-Mart bag and gave it a proper burial in the trash can at the nearby park.

In the weeks since, we've found them here and there, some dead, some alive, all in the basement. The live ones are released, the dead get a visit to the park.

Last Tuesday, I found yet another. Definitely dead.

I saw it, what was left of it, during a search for a set of curtains hastily unpacked and jammed into a place uncertain. The cabinet in Robby's basement TV room was my best guess. I had just the place for them, and, excited as always at the prospect of decorating, flew down the stairs with that weird little surge of joy only female homeowners can understand.

The cabinet in which I was sure the curtains were stored was streaked with dried blood. Hanging from its door was a snake's body. Rather, a portion of a snake's body. The portion I could not see was trapped in the cabinet door, it appeared. The portion I could see was only about six inches long, tapering off into an umblicial-like cord of dried blood.

Dear little George apparently had torn the thing apart as it hung, suspended, from the cabinet. Just how this had transpired I did not know. Or care. My gag reflex sprang to life.

I pride myself on my farm girl upbringing, which I believe makes me tough and not easily shaken. In the wake of George's successful hunting trips, I've cleaned up many a rabbit's head. Black, shiny, sightlessly staring rodent eyes don't particularly bother me. Nor do the bits of intestine sometimes left behind. Dead birds, mice, stiff but intact snakes? Bring them on.

This was none of those things. I approached the body with a paper towel in hand, and wrapped it around the six inches of body remaining. I tugged, lightly. The hose-shaped object was going nowhere. I tried to raise the top of the cabinet up with my hand. It barely moved.

I envisioned the snake's head on the other side. I envisioned it separating from the body if I pulled hard. I envisioned myself puking on Robby's carpet.

I ran back upstairs, my homeowner joy replaced by near buyer's remorse. This was one of the aspects of homeownership upon which I'd never counted. I felt ill-equipped to handle it. I was no longer the proud, independent divorcee who single-handedly maintained my wee homestead. I was merely a woman, in need of a man.

I called the neighbor.

Mike was at my door within 10 minutes. He entered carrying a gallon-sized flashlight, a wrench and thick, canvas gloves -- appropriate tools, I thought approvingly, for a bloody snake of undetermined but surely massive size. I ushered him downstairs. He stared at the cabinet door. He grimaced. I felt thoroughly vindicated. Even a being ruled by testosterone was repulsed by the sight.

That was all the satisfaction I got. Mike walked over and gave the top of the cabinet a firm yank. It fairly flew up, making a three-inch gap from which he pulled the snake. He removed about three, thin inches of snake tail, which he dropped into his own Wal-Mart bag and took with him.

"Hopefully next time, I'll call with a real emergency," I said, thanking him and feeling small, helpless and oh-so-typically female.

He waved it off. "For most people, that is a real emergency."

I wanted to say, "But I am not most people!" But realized this was not the time or place, and that my voice would lack conviction.

I still cannot figure out how the snake got into its fatal position. My best guess is that George brought it in live and let it go, that the snake slithered up into the cabinet in an attempt to escape and, discovering there was no out there, turned around and came out -- into George's waiting claws and teeth. For George, batting at the helplessly dangling reptile must have made for a merry game.

Yesterday, I watched George catch another snake. He waited with that impressive hunter's brand of patience, then jammed a paw between two rocks and pulled up a pitifully small fellow. George's mouth closed around it, and I saw the snake coil. Tail straight up with obvious pride, George carried it into the backyard and down the steps into the basement.

I ran for the camera and took several pictures of feline and serpent before releasing the unharmed but surely changed small snake into rocks. I took them to record so people would believe my stories of George's snake-hunting prowess. But mostly, I took them to send to a dear friend, who is terrified of snakes. She will never, she says, set foot in my basement again. And George, whom she once adored, now gives her the shudders.

As for me, I'm closing the sliding glass door at night now. It's the portal through which George travels on his nightly excursions, and it has remained open every day since we moved to Peacock Drive. My excuse is that it's getting killed. But the truth is, I think George needs to get reacquainted with his food dish.

Another shooting star crossed my path this evening. Unlike last time, I didn’t wish for love. Instead, I wished for a truly satisfying job.

Oops. Wasn’t supposed to tell you that, was I? Maybe that explains why a guy on a white horse hasn’t trotted into my life after the last shooting star blog. Hmm.

Which also likely means I’ve just sealed my fate, and will be a Medicare/Medicaid insurance marketer for life. This is truly terrifying.

Anyway, I was going to blog about why I am so dissatisfied with my job. But that would be dull, tedious and depressing – which basically is the why of the whole thing anyway.

Instead, I’d like to introduce you to three of the most memorable characters I’ve met during the last year of selling and marketing Medicare health insurance.

Her name was Anne. She was, at 82, still a stately, graceful woman, the kind of person whose very appearance inspires respect and admiration. Anne had enrolled in the program with me during my first days as a saleswoman. Our paths crossed again when she visited the senior medical clinic in which I market the plan every Wednesday morning. We recognized one another as she and her husband prepared to check out after her appointment.

“How are you?” I asked.

She smiled, but sighed. “Much better. I’m finally done with six weeks of radiation.”
I expressed sympathy.

“You wouldn’t believe what it does to your skin,” she said. “It’s all in my breast area, or where my breast used to be.”

Anne drew nearer to me and slid a hand into her button-front shirt, just below right shoulder. That side of the blouse slid down. But it was no accident, I suddenly realized. From there, it unfolded like a bad dream.

I sat up straight, the word “no” stuck in my throat as Anne exposed her bra to me, then reached in and pulled down the right cup.

I saw red, raw skin underneath her armpit, boiling down onto what once was her breast but was now a flat expanse with a seam extending about four inches that side of her chest.

Her husband’s back was turned. He saw none of this. Neither did the receptionist, who was perusing the appointment book for an open slot in which to schedule Anne’s next visit.

“Ouch,” I said, then flinched at my own choice of word. “That looks very painful.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

She pulled her bra back into its proper position, readjusted her blouse and gave me a relieved smile. “But it’s over now.”

I nodded in agreement. “Thank God,” I said.

My second most memorable Medicare encounter was with a middle-aged Medicaid recipient who lived in a cracker box house in a blue-collar section of suburban Denver. Dani answered my knock with a big grin that exposed yellowed teeth. But 32 yellowed teeth, of that I was quite sure.

Dani did not live alone.

As my eyes adjusted from the Colorado sunshine to the dim interior of Dani’s house, I saw an elderly woman propped up in a single bed in the middle of the living room. Curled next to her was a tiny dog of undefined lineage. The only definite thing about the dog was that he was ugly. And yippy. And untrained.

He stood up at the sight of me, released a series of stacatto yelps, jumped down from the bed and up onto my black dress pants. I cooed a bit, as I always do to dogs, and waited expectantly for either Granny or her daughter to call the little bugger off. No one did.

Granny stared, unblinking, at the TV, from which the immediately recognizable applause of a “Price is Right” audience blared.

My sales manager had once told me “Price is Right” was a staple of our demographic.
No one offered to turn the television down, although the older woman finally did pay some attention to the dog.

“Taco!” she shouted. “Shut up!”

Dani sat on a love seat between Granny’s bed and the TV and patted the cushion next to her. I sat, and pulled out a brochure about our plan, going into my spiel about its benefits.

Dani, nodding and “uh-huh”-ing in agreement, lit a cigarette. She took a deep drag, then let it dangle from between her fingers, about two feet under my chin. Smoke curled up, making a beeline for my nostrils.

In about two seconds, I’d thought the situation through. I was in Dani’s home, trying to sell her our insurance plan. If I were a guest, I’d have politely objected, asked the cigarette be snuffed out or taken into another room. I’d have stood up for my right to clean air. As a saleswoman, I didn’t feel I had a leg to stand on.

Besides which, the dog was sniffing at my feet. If I stood up, I’d likely squish the little darling.

Dani saw a long list of specialists. Amazingly, all of them contracted with our company – except for her psychiatrist. And this, she finally decided, was OK. His partner was on our list. “He knows me,” she said. “I’ll just switch to him.”

Dani smiled and turned to the woman in the bed.

“What do you think, Mom? This sounds good, doesn’t it? You think I should sign up?”
Mom didn’t so much as cut her eyes toward her daughter. She frowned in annoyance.

“I don’t give a damn, Dani,” she said. “It’s your decision.”

Dani enrolled.

Two days later, she called back, her tone frantic.

“There’s been a problem in the family,” she said.
I didn’t ask for details, but I wondered: Had Granny taken poorly to the news that Bob Barker was retiring?

“I can’t leave my psychiatrist right now,” she said. “Please, don’t enroll me.”

Lastly was Lila, a small, outspoken woman who resides in an assisted living facility. Lila and most of her housemates are mentally incapacitated, a polite, medical term for “off one’s rocker.”

I knew within moments of starting my presentation to them that it was wasted breath. They stared at me, smiling vacantly. Their only interest was in the lunch I’d brought for them. I cut the talk short.

“Is anyone hungry?” I asked. Lights blinked on in all 16 pairs of eyes.

The building was short-staffed, so I helped fill plates and serve the residents.

“No meat, no salad, just fruit,” Lila said, shouting more than speaking. Most of the residents already were eating. The room was largely silent. Her voice echoed.

“You sure?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I need fruit. Lots of it. Good for the bowels.”

She grinned at me, and I swear I saw mischief in her eyes.

I looked around me. Not a single staff person was in the room.

“I have problems with my bowels,” she continued, her voice still booming. “Do you understand? My bowels. They don’t move like they should.”

A woman at another table tittered. No one else reacted at all. The lights I’d seen flicker so briefly had once again gone off. They were almost completely focused on food.

I wasn’t embarrassed. Only repulsed. Remember, yours truly is a woman who doesn’t allow her son to fart in the house. The mental picture of a straining Lila, combined with the very real vision of her tablemates’ plates of barbecued beef, threatened to trigger my gag reflex.

I turned away from Lila hastily. Still, she rattled on.

“If I don’t eat fruit, I have to take a pill,” she said. “To make my bowels move. That’s what the pill’s for. It tastes awful! So I eat fruit. Lots of it. Bring me lots of it, OK? Good for my bowels.”

I filled a plate with chunks of watermelon, cantaloupe, pineapple, grapes and strawberries.

The house manager slipped silently back into the room.

“Everything OK?” she asked me, smiling brightly.

“Yes, I think so,” I said, placing the plate before Lila.

“Thanks, honey,” Lila shouted. “I’ll eat it all. This will move my bowels. Then I don’t have to take that awful pill.”

The manager’s face reddened, and she smiled at me again, this time apologetically.
“Lila!” She strode over to the table at which the tiny woman sat. “You know we don’t talk about that in the dining room!”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, turning back to me. “She doesn’t understand.”

Weeks later, I’m still not so sure about that. I suspect Lila, by revealing that brief flicker of amusement, may have let me in on our little secret. And knowing I’d be gone, only me.

Perhaps it's wishful thinking, but I hope Lila was having a little fun. As disgusting as the subject matter may have been, for that I could only admire her.

Today, I had my annual exam. To be more specific, my annual female exam.

I haven't had a steady gynecologist in years. Too much moving around, procrastinating and lack of sexual activity. Let's face it - when you're not having sex, and not in pressing need of some form of birth control, you don't think much about OB GYN matters.

Still, something reminded me the other day that I had not seen one for a while. I chose a doctor off our provider list, the only one who practiced in the zip code in which I live, and in which I intended to live over the course of several such annual exams. Good enough.

She was a pleasant woman. A bit too folksy for my taste. The actual exam was delayed in favor of chitchat, a getting-to-know-you sit down with the doc that I found an annoying waste of time.

This came after I filled out the paperwork, submitted a urine sample, was ushered to a room, waited 15 minutes and answered the questions of an intern nurse whose supervisor silently observed. By this time, I was more than ready to have the transaction completed.

But this was not to be.

"Here's your gown," the nurse told me. "But don't put it on yet. First, the doctor wants to talk to you."

I waited another 10 minutes, and the smiling doctor, who appeared to be about my age, breezed into the room. I was, by this time, sitting in the chair, a decidedly more dignified posture than sitting on the exam table, legs swinging childlike from its edge.

Dr. Gibson pulled up a chair close to mine. She did not ask me if I had any special concerns, how often or if I was sexually active or if my periods were troublesome. Those questions came later, during the exam. Instead, she asked me how I was.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked, her expression reflecting great interest when I told her marketing.

I knew this was feigned. Marketing on its face, since it encompasses such a wide array of career possibilities, is not fascinating. She asked who my employer was and, once again, raised her eyebrows and smiled as though impressed.

"And what does that involve?"

My smile was thin, though I tried my hardest to make it genuine. All I wanted was to have her in my body and out, as quickly as possible.

I suppose this is a modern-day trend, an attempt to make the doctor seem more human and to ease the patient. But doctors like this one see so many patients, so many of them on only an annual basis, that her interest could not possibly have been genuine. Nor did it have to be.

"Let's drop the pretense. Here is what we are to one another," I longed to say. "You: doctor. Me: Vagina. Any questions?"

I wanted to hear her inquiring not about my career and family life, but to my cervix.

Barring that, the only sound I desired was the snap of latex as she donned her gloves and got down to business.

"I see you have a little boy," she persisted. "Oh! Not so little really."

"No," I said. "No. He's not."

Either the conversation was completed to her satisfaction or she picked up on my decided lack of enthusiasm - or concluded I was PMSing - because Dr. Gipson finally gave me the order for which I'd been waiting.

"Put on your gown and I'll be right back."

With a relief, I shrugged out of my own clothes and into the paper-thin cotton gown.

When she returned, the doc was ready to work.

Partway through the exam, with her hand in a space only penises were meant to go, she paused.

"Hmm," she said. "You're so thin. I can't tell if this is an ovary or a fibroid."

Her brow furrowed. She rooted around some more. It did not hurt, but it was not exactly pleasant either. It seemed to me an ovary and a fibroid should be distinctly different in feel, but since I had never explored innards, and she did so regularly, who was I to say?

"Put your hand here, on your stomach," she said, directing me to a spot just west of my belly button. "Press right there. You feel that."

Her hand pushed up from inside me, into the palm of the hand that rested on my tummy.

"That bump ... feel it?"

This was weird indeed. But I thought perhaps, just maybe, I felt something. I said yes, of course, I certainly did. I'd have said almost anything to speed this stage of the exam along.

"If it's a fibroid, it's not at a worrisome stage," she said. "We'll just check it again next year."

Finally, I was free to sit up and, immediately, cross my legs.

The doctor again gave me her Girl-Scout-mom-next-door smile. "Everything looks great," she said.

Almost against my will, sarcastic thoughts swirled through my mind. Was that a compliment? Could it be that my female parts were better and healthier looking than those of other women? I tried to think of an appropriate response, but none came.

Dr. Gibson washed her hands and wrote me a prescription for a mammogram. Then she was gone, and I was relieved.

I hope my new gynecologist's technique does not gain popularity. She is not my enemy, but neither is she my friend. An annual exam is business. Plain and simple.

My advice to dear Dr. Gibson and her well-meaning colleagues: Save the chitchat. Do the job at hand. Do it well, and do it fast.

And pass that along to the staff at the breast center. STAT.

The call came as we were stuck in traffic. A request for lunch from a man I'd been interested in for six months.

My co-worker, who was driving the car, quickly picked up on who was on the other end of my phone, and what he wanted. I looked at her. She nodded yes. I shook my head no.

"Can I call you back in about three minutes and let you know?"

He sounded a bit taken aback, but agreed.

She and I were on our way back into Denver from a morning's work at a medical clinic far north of the city. The two of us carpooled regularly to our jaunts at the five clinics. We were done for the day, and she was driving me back to my car.

When two women spend hours in a car together, it's almost inevitable that they open up to one another. My co-worker and I know one another's sordid and happy histories, current family and friendship issues, moods and wardrobes.

She knew me so well that before I hung up the phone, she knew who had called and what he had asked.

"He wants me to meet him downtown for lunch," I said. "Look at me!"

I pulled down the visor on the passenger's side and looked in the mirror. "I can't go! I didn't sleep well last night. I have circles under my eyes. My hair sucks!"

Joann is a no-nonesense Missouri native who instinctively knows how to handle men, and most other things. She tries, usually in vain, to direct and advise me on the romantic prospects that came my way.

But the time for advice was over. Now, she was giving orders.

"Oh you're going, girl. I've got makeup and hair spray. Look in my purse. It's that pink bag."

I opened the pink bag and pulled out powder, blush and lip gloss. I pawed at the bottom of it for more and came up empty.

"I need mascara! Eye shadow! Concealer!"

"No you don't," she said. "Let me look at you."

I turned my face toward hers and she studied me as well as any driver could in moving traffic.

"Well, maybe just a little concealer," she admitted.

"That's it," I said. "I'm telling him no."

The phone rang, a dramatic trumpeting that made every call - particularly this one - sound supremely important.

"You tell him you're going," she said.

I withered at her commanding tone.

"There's a Big K right around the corner here," she said. We'll get you all fixed up. Tell him you need 20 minutes."

I heard the reluctance in his tone when he agreed to 20 minutes. My car was at least 10 minutes from the downtown restaurant in which we had agreed to meet, and we hadn't even reached it yet. Twenty minutes, I knew, was inconceivable.

Joann knew no such word. We exited the highway, blasted through a light more red than yellow and careened into the Big K parking lot.

"This is ridiculous," I said. "I don't have the money to buy all new cosmetics."

"Who said anything about buying?" She tossed the words over her shoulder as she marched toward the door.

I followed, childlike.

In the cosmetics aisle, she grabbed an unboxed bottle of concealer and spun the top off.

"Now, slow movements so you're not obvious," she said softly. "Find yourself a mirror and do what you gotta do."

A few feet away, in jewelry, I spied a slender mirror designed to let women assess their potential jeweled purchases.

I dabbed makeup under my eyes and, for good measure, on my cheeks and chin, rubbing it in quickly.

"Turn around," Joann said. She studied my face, and rubbed here and there with her fingertip, blending in the foundation.

Similarly, I found a case of eye shadow that had been dropped. Its powdery contents were broken into crumbs. It would never sell. Joann opened it quickly and placed it into my hands.

"Here," she said, directing me to the Maybelline section. "This is 40 percent off."

This time, we purchased. For $5, I bought mascara and eyeliner and while Joann signed my debit card receipt, I applied them in yet another slender trinkets mirror.

"She has a date," Joann explained to the jewelry department clerk who tallied my purchases.

The woman grinned. "Oh! Good luck!"

I blushed, not out of embarrassment but guilt for having ransacked her cosmetics aisles.

Joann hurried me back into the parking lot.

"Now," she said, "stand here."

I stood next to her car while she removed a can of hairspray from her glove box. As I watched in the reflection of the passenger side window, she grabbed and sprayed bits and pieces of hair, carefully assessing it as she went. My hair was flat and uninspired no longer.

"There!" she said, pleased with her handiwork. "Now it looks funky, and fun."

We hurried back into the car. Eight minutes had passed.

"Now, take off your sunglasses," she said. "Look at me."

I turned my face to hers and she grinned. "You look beautiful!"

Ninety seconds later, I was unlocking my car door, 10 minutes later pulling into a parking spot a block away from the restaurant. The meter flashed red. I had nary a penny on me. I turned my back on the nagging meter and ran half a block, then slowed to a ladylike stroll. The long, cocoa brown, light skirt I'd chosen for work swirled sweetly around my calves. No one would guess I'd spent the last half hour in a state of almost utter panic.

My eyes sought the sign that marked the restaurant. I spied it on the second floor of a building still some considerable distance away. Even from here, I could see him standing on the deck, watching me walk.

For a couple minutes, I pretended not to have seen him.

Within days, I would discover my latest casual love interest was not the man for me. I would see him at his worst, neglecting his children while he entertained other adults and drank excessive amounts of alcohol. I would see other qualities, too, that quickly told me he was perhaps right for someone else, but not for me.

But for those few moments on that downtown Denver street, I knew none of that. I felt beautiful, excited and admired. In part by the fact that he had asked me, and in part by the dramatic process involved in getting me there.

I looked up, long enough so that he knew I had seen him. I waved, and then sent a smile that traveled down the sidewalk and up two stories, directly to the man who waited for me.

My son, at 11, is anti-Bush.

His favorite show is The Colbert Report.

He is a Democrat in the making.

I suspect, well, am quite sure, he got this from me. Sometimes I think this is funny. Mostly, I find it amazing because yes, I influenced him, but he came in large part to his own conclusions.

About two years ago, he asked me the difference between a Republican and a Democrat.

This is something I did not ask anyone until I was at least 23. My friend Lane can attest to this. She was the person to whom I asked it. By that time, I am ashamed to say, I had been a reporter for two years, five if college counts. Even after that, my momentary interest in politics slipped away and did not re-emerge in any significant way until perhaps as little as five years ago.

So to hear this question from a 9-year-old threw me for a loop.

I did my best to explain.

He furrowed his brow at the thought of Democrats taking taxes - money from people who had earned it - for social programs. He was, he decided, a Republican. At this, I furrowed my own brow. Apparently, I'd done a more objective job of explaining these things than I'd thought. I threw out one more sentence, describing a few of the programs those taxes supported. I talked about the homeless, and the mentally ill. Robby does not yet know anything of my history of mental illness. Yet something of my passion no doubt crept into my tone.

He changed his mind. A Democrat he was.

I explained, too, that there was no need to choose a party. But I clearly lean left. And so does he.

Robby doesn't just watch the Colbert Report. He understands it. More than once, I have explained the element of sarcasm, the character Stephen Colbert plays, that the message he relays is far more than the words he uses. The second time I went over this with him - certain the subject matter was just too deep for him - he cut me off. "I get it, Mom."

Last night, rain drove us inside and eventually, to Storm Stories, the best we could find among the Sunday night lineup. Our friend Laura, in whose home we were overnight guests, sat with us in the living room. We had mostly been a silent trio throughout the evening.

A lead-in to a story about Hurricane Katrina included short, sometimes incomplete quotes from the mayor of New Orleans, desperate residents and the president.

The camera focused on Bush addressing a crowd, his face earnest, his tone strong. "The worst disaster in natural history ..."

"Is Bush!" Robby quipped.

I looked at him, then at Laura. She and I burst into laughter. Robby watched us, and followed suit, his laughter louder than ours, clearly delighted by his own joke. Moments later, he and I were still exchanging occasional glances and bursting into fits of laughter.

Sometimes, I find the concept of parenting an awesome responsibility. I wonder how this job fell to me, that anyone could deem me fit to mold another person. It seems an honor, and a task, too great. The further realization that my son is molding his beliefs, both religious and political, to mine - and not his father's - is at once wonderful and terrifying. To me, a so-called journalist who for most of her life has cared very little about politics, an 11-year-old is turning to learn the values that will shape his future. Sure as I am in my own views, I am humbled by the idea. And proud almost beyond expression by his interest and comprehension of subjects that were beyond me for so long.

But what's even better than being an interesting person is, in my mind, being a funny one. Hopefully, I'm raising both.

Deb left my life with a bang of emotion almost two years ago, the ending fittingly violent and dramatic for a 17-year friendship I could best characterize as big. Big laughs, big adventures, big dramas, big transitions. And big hangovers.

On the day we ended, a void formed, just as I'd known it would. My wild friend was gone.

Other friends and I enjoyed wild times, but Deb was truly wild. Untamable, unstoppable, with no time or patience for the words "can't", "shouldn't" or "won't."

These friends are like sugar. Sweet, addictive, instantly satisfying but not always the most fulfilling. Those most healthy, solid friendships come with intense, riveting conversations, solid advice and unwavering patience in spite of emotional turmoil - vital amenities not always found in those delicious, almost sinful relationships.

Some other friends, particularly men, will not like them. Others will warn you against them. You may even agree. Yet you return, time and again.

So it was with Deb. Hers was a life of hard knocks and an I-will-be-happy-damnit attitude. In the end, that was our undoing.

But Deb's story, though it will be told soon, isn't the focus of this writing.

It's my neighbor, my new wild friend. My new bit of sugar.

She lives four doors down the street from me. She is a tall, lean brunette with a husky voice, a salty vocabulary, a boob job, a four-bedroom house, two dogs and a car she cannot drive. Pam lost her license after an alcohol-related traffic accident that should have killed her but left her alive and in debt to the legal and medical systems.

Yet she celebrates life. Like Deb, she sees above the hurdles that would knock, and keep, most of us down for a very long time. She acknowledges them, then shrugs them off in favor of a beer and a serious session of gossip, tied with throaty, genuine laughter.

These past two weeks, we have spent hours together, and the bond has quickly formed. Suddenly, the missing pieces of my friendship circle are clicking back into place. A cast of unique characters again fills my life. A fellow soccer mom - thoughtful and sweet - and my marketing partner - who knows neither fear or man she cannot charm - have come into focus as central figures in my daily existence. My phone, sometimes silent for an entire weekend during our year at the apartment, sounds again with the achingly beautiful voices of friends.

But either Deb made me more alert, or I am simply a sadder and wiser girl. So soon into this promising adventure, I see red flags.

Two weeks ago, shots and beers appeared as if out of nowhere when a group of us danced into the wee hours at a downtown bar. Later, she admitted it had been her and that she hadn't had the money to do it. "Sometimes," she said, "you've just got to do those things."

A week later, we stoppped in for a single beer on a sunny patio. It was my treat, I said, and watched in shock as she ordered shots. It was $40 I did not have to spend, yet seeing her smile and laugh until her eyes sparkled with tears, I decided it was worthwhile.

She told me yesterday she is 11 days from not having a home, with insufficient money to pay even for groceries. In a sluggish economy, her career as a mortgage broker has all but died. She cleans three houses weekly, and expected $100 cash from one of her employers the next day. It was enough, she said, to buy dog food and a little food. And that was all. Her last mortgage payment was made only because a friend put it on his credit card, she said. She had no idea how she would repay him.

She wept, and I ached for her. My mind began churning with suggestions, ways I might help her, something I could do to ensure my new friend swam to the surface and stayed in our quirky neighborhood.

She would not, I reassured her, be homeless. She and her dogs could stay with us, if worse came to worse.

I begged her to leave the house and come with me to a meeting of a group called the Barstool Philosphers - a monthly gathering in which people far smarter than I meet to talk about current events. A small fix for a a former journalist who once heard such conversations daily; I find this gathering almost a lifeline. Even though I doubted she'd find it truly engaging, it would get her out of the house, I reasoned, and give her something else to think about.

With her seeming ability to adapt and enjoy any situation, she did just that.

She tossed out trivia that stumped all of them and laughed at their befuddlement. She charmed them. I saw it in their faces. My admiration and affection for her grew. She stepped out of the car last night with a smile and a quip.

This evening, she called.

"I'm at a bar," she said. "Come play with me!"

But my house, with its bare walls and a few dirty surfaces, had my attention for the evening. When I refused, she insisted.

"I got paid today! I'll buy! I owe you," she said.

My heart sank.

"But honey, you don't have the money to do that."

"No, I'm OK," she said. "I picked up a couple extra cleaning jobs for next week. I've got money!"

I turned her down again, and finally, she relented.

I thought of her yesterday tears. I thought of the friend whose credit card held her mortgage. I thought of the angst I felt for her.

When our troubles get too ridiculously large for us to see daylight, we escape in any way we can. Some of us to exercise, some to work, others to laughter and the company of others. I understood why she was at the bar, instead of home counting pennies.

But life is a series of choices, a maze of intersections in which we constantly choose directions. Hopefully, we pick the right ones more often than not, the ones that lead us on a jagged but upward course. Like pennies, the wrong choices add up.

I care about her now perhaps even more than I did. The caretaker in me, the one that often seduces me down my own overgrown paths, is awake and on alert for this woman who has already brought so much light to my life.

But a tiny roadblock went up inside me when our conversation ended. A bit of me closed off to her.

It's an effort - no doubt - at self protection. For the insight I may not have had just two or three years ago, I am grateful. For the dented faith it took to gain it, and for the bit of air it releases from the hopeful balloon of this new friendship, a small part of me mourns.

Robby and the neighbor kids at the new house